


So I unto my selfe alone will sing

by kyriacarlisle



Category: Society of Gentlemen - K. J. Charles
Genre: Costume Parties & Masquerades, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-12 05:23:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20993948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyriacarlisle/pseuds/kyriacarlisle
Summary: Dominic comes home from a party. He's very decorative.





	So I unto my selfe alone will sing

“I’ve sent the servants off for the night. I said I’d see you out,” Dominic says, lingering in the study doorway, evening cloak already clasped and hat and gloves in hand. “There’s wine on the table. You won’t be bored?”

He marks his place with a finger and looks up. “There’s your library to entertain me,” he says. “Go let Foxy dress you up for your fancy party.”

“It’s costumes. Eustacia—Lady Cirencester—thought they would be amusing. It’s not too—you might like it.” Dominic has the cautiously hopeful expression he uses to give gifts. 

“Then come home and show me after. Go on, I’ve got a book.” 

The hallway door closes behind him, and Silas is alone in Dom’s plush chambers, surrounded by shelves: Dominic’s interests and beliefs and fancies, each volume tastefully bound to match the rest. He pours himself a glass and settles back more comfortably in his seat.

He has been sitting by the fire in the bedchamber for hours, book set aside next to the cut-crystal decanter, savoring the warmth and quiet of respectability, when Dominic returns, cheerful and not entirely sober. “Oh, hello,” he says, “you waited up.”

David’s choice of disguise suits him, Dom’s slender frame and dark hair set off by white drapery and vine leaves, the appealing way he ducks his head and looks through his lashes seeming half-wild, as if he might bolt back into the wilderness, to pipe and dance under a full moon.

He stumbles his way through undressing, entangled in sandal laces, clumsily discarding the unfamiliar tunic and wildcat’s pelt, leaning into Silas’s chest for balance. “You enjoyed yourself, then?” Silas asks, carefully working the garland out of his hair and tucking one curl back behind his ear. “Ah, thank you. Yes. You should have seen them: Ash forgot about his wings, and was stuck in the conservatory door, and Harry threatened to steal a horn and blow the last trump in his ear to jar him loose, and then Julius said we would be forced to pluck him like a goose, and then Francis came round from the other side and took him by the waist and pulled him through and they both fell into the lilies and _then_ Ash said they might as well stay there where it was cushioned, and Francis called him a feather-headed idiot and Ash said, ‘no, the feathers are on my shoulders, Francis, don’t you see that was the trouble?’”

“And how did the peacock dress?”

“Harry? Oh, he chose something medieval—all the embroidery he could wish for, and a chance to show off that appalling earring.”

Smiling, he tugs Silas with him by the shirtsleeves until he can collapse slowly onto the bed and roll over, scrubbing back and shoulders hedonistically against the clean linen as he settles. 

He meets Silas’s gaze. “Yes,” he says abruptly. “I enjoyed—it was—pleasant, to appear to be someone else for an evening. You know, I saw a statue like this once.” 

“Then stay there,” Silas says, “just like that. Let me look at you.” 

Silas knows Dom can play, can argue and debate and turn any conversation into a contest, but he has rarely seen him playful. And here Dominic is, laid out before him on the bed, teasingly reaching up one hand and then the other to grab the iron bedframe. “There were grapes; come taste.” He smells of sugar and expensive soap, his lips stained and cheeks rosy with the wine flush, and Silas can see that someone has brushed gold dust into his hair and—a testament to David’s taste for perfection—onto the points of his collarbones, where only Silas would be likely to see it. He is beautiful, and Silas admires him: his own private model, posed for enjoyment. 

“Spread your legs,” he says. “No, wider.”

He runs a finger down the straining tendon in Dominic’s right thigh, avoids his hardening cock, rests one hand heavy on the hollow at his groin. “I’m not of a mind to hurt you tonight.” Against the pale, tender skin, his work-worn, broad-knuckled fingers look particularly brutish.

“Does it hurt?” Silas asks. Dominic shakes his head slightly: no. The little gilded goat horns still fixed in his hair wink and gleam in the firelight. “Then they’re not spread far enough yet, are they? Come on, Tory, work a little.”

Dom is frowning, confusion in his dark eyes, but he obediently shifts his legs further apart, until he pulls his knees up and arches his back with the stretch and Silas can feel muscle shaking under his hand. He leans down, then, kisses Dominic gently, on closed mouth and forehead and temple, dragging his lips over the smooth skin. “I won’t hurt you,” he says again, close by Dom’s ear. “Tonight you’ll have to do for yourself.” He stays there, hands braced to either side of Dominic’s shoulders, close enough to hear the clicking gulp when he swallows.

And then he sits back between Dominic’s legs, nods at the jar left in easy reach on the table. “Slow or fast, it’s your choice.” 

Dominic stares back at him, confusion changing to a sort of thrilled alarm, then determination. When he moves, it’s fast. As Silas knew he would, he ignores the oil and jams two fingers roughly into himself, eyes screwed shut, sucking the breath in hard through his nose. “Wrong.” Silas says, over Dominic’s pained gasp. “I can make you rush to spend any night of the week. Let’s find out how well you torment yourself when it’s slow.”


End file.
